WHAT THE FIR KNIXY DID.
The wind came up the great river early that mommg and began to blow
and blow. All the brown tumble weeds looked at each other in surprise and
then scurried away up the roads and across the fields like bands of frightened
sheep, and hid away in trembling heaps in the fence corners.
" It is cold," said the ranchers, and they piled more wood on the fires,
and the logs snapped and hissed. The vapory ghosts of the dying pine wood
went up the chimneys and came curling out at the tops to be caught and
whirled away by the angry wind. They flew far off up into (he rain clouds,
and when the clouds were blown down across the mountains they wept to see
the jagged stumps that had been their thrones when alive, and the needles of
the baby pines were wet and dripping after the clouds had passed.
The fir knixy didn't care for the wind himself, for however hard it blew
it could not penetrate his cosy nest, hung low on the side of an old fir tree.
You have all seen knixy nests, for they live in the great, round balls of
branches which often grow on the sides of fir trees.
There was a new cabin near the fir knixy's tree, so new that the ends of
the logs were still yellow and emitted a pleasant, piney odor. Harder and
harder blew the wind, the rain changed to sleet that covered the trunks of the
trees with a glistening armor. It drove in through the chinks of the cabin
and the cold air followed after and made everybody shiver.
" Ilurn, burn," said the fire, cheerfully, and tossed up its long, red arms
and sent the sparks flying. There were three little children in the cabins the
father lay sick on a bed in the corner, and the little mother tried to stop up
the chinks as best she could and keep out the stormy weather. The fir knixy
knew all about it, for he often sat on the end of a log that projected over the
fireplace and heard the poor people tell of their troubles. Many a time he
rocked the baby's cradle to keep him from crying often, when the coyote
came up from the canyon and stood on the hill top and barked lustily he had
frightened him back that he might not molest the chickens. Surely, this was
a good deal for a knixy to do, but he was not contented. His round head
buned all day long with impossible schemes to help the poor people. And
that day it was worse than ever, and when night came there was no supper in
the house i the father lay as white and still as if he were dead, and the chil
dren clung to their mother's skirts.
" I can't stand this," said the fir knixy, when he saw how things were
going, and he started off up the road, for just what he could not have told,
for he had no settled purpose in view i but up the hill he met a horse and car
riage, and he at once settled himself on the horse's neck.
" Where are you going this bad night, my friend? " he asked.
" Don't ask me," said the horse, "for I'm sure I don't know, I think
my master must be cnuy. I'm so tired I can hardly walk, and I'm nearly
blind wirh trying to see the road, and this impudent wind blowing in my
eyes."
" I know where there is a stable only a short distance off," said the
knixy. " There is no grain there, but plenty of warm straw. How much
better that would lie tlian to be out in the storm I "
" I should think so," said the horse, as his feet slipped on the icy road.
" Just close your eyes, then, and I'll guide you, and when your master
finds he has missed his way he will prolwbly slop for the night." This the
home gladly agreed to, and they were soon at the cabin.
" Hello, what's this?" cried the man, with a start, for he had nearly
gone to sleep jogging along. " I must be off the road, for I don't remember
any house along here. Hello, there!" he called to the house. No one an
swered, so he got out ami rapd loudly at the door.
" Who can that be, at this time of night !" said the little mother, as she
0ened the door, for they had no neighbors. As the door swung back she
turned so white that the knixy thought she was going to faint, and she would
surely have fallen if the stranger had not caught her in his anus.
" Why, Mar,' ? " he cried, " you here ! Why, who would have dreamed
of it !" for it was his only sister ami he had not known where she was for
years. " And in such a place t It will never do, never 1 "
So the horse got his place in the stable, but in the rooming he went to
town flying i indeed, he told afterward that the carriage only touched the
ground when they went round the fence comers, though he may have exager
ated. And he went back almost as fast with a load of good things, and in a
THE WEST SHORE.
week or so he carried the whole family off, which was surely a frightful load
for one poor horse. That was the to the kmxy saw of them
The creek knows all about them and that they are well and happy, for it
runs right by their new home in the valley, but it never comes back to tell,
although the canyon kelpie charges it every nigh, to search for the knixy s lost
friends. .
The poor fir knixy's complexion is getting quite blue, reflecting his sad
thoughts, and he gels lonesome now that the cabin is emptyt he hardly ever
, n. ht sits cruniDlcd up on a limb in his nest, like an old fir cone, and
6"" ' 1
thinks and thinks.
Maude Sutton.
FOUND IN THE ATTIC.
Is there anything more delightful than visiting an old friend who lives in
a rambling old country house, and gives you the " freedom " of her domain,
to wander as you will, and explore the mysteries of the hay mow, the cellar,
the attic and the old " north wing ? " I have such a friend, a dear old lady
whose hair has been prematurely whitened by sorrow, yet whose temperament
is too sunny to yield to habitual gloom. My rare visits to her are the bright
spots in my otherwise uneventful life ; and somehow she always manages to
pack up some of her heart sunshine among my belongings for me to carry
home. She is an inexhaustible study to me, with her bright, sweet spirit and
her sorrowful experience. Twenty yeais ago the husband of her youth was
laid to rest in the little burial ground whose white stones can be seen from the
gable window of the attic ; and one by one, as the years went by, eight chil
dren followed him, until she had but one left a boy, the brightest and hand
somest of all her brood. Useless to try to tell how her bleeding heart strings
twined themselves about that boy, nor with what fond hope and pride she
watched him step across the threshold of young manhood. When I tell you
that now he occupies a felon's cell in a penitentiary, and is serving out a life
sentence, you will understand how deeply my old friend has drunk of the
dregs of sorrow. I never fully understood it myself until, during a recent
visit, an incident occurred that gave me an insight into the hidden recesses of
her heart. We had gone together, she and I, to the attic to look for some
thing of which we had been speaking, and while rumaging in a trunk full of
old-time treasures I came upon a little slate, with a shrunken sponge attached
by a bit of string, and wooden frame battered and whittled in true boy fash
ion. Hut what especially drew my attention to the slate was a little hand
crudely outlined on it, in the palm of which a name and date were dimly
scribbled. As I thoughtlessly held it to the light my friend caught sight of
it, and such a change as came over her poor old face I hope never to see
again. She reached out for the slate, gazed for a moment at the little hand
and burst into a fit of weeping that wrung my heart to witness. I tried to
say something to atone for my thoughtlessness, but could find no words in
the presence of such grief. I believe the thought of my distress caused her
to control her feelings sooner than she could have done had she been alone,
for she was by nature unselfish and considerate of others. As soon as she
could speak she said :
" Never mind, dear how could you know it was his slate ? I have not
seen it for years, yet it seems, 0, so short a time since he came bounding in
from school one day and proudly cried : 1 Here, mamma, you can put away
my slate, nowj I've passed into the sixth grade and won't need it any more.
I give it to you, mamma, and my hand with it, you see.' Dear, little, inno
cent hand," she continued, the tears gathering and falling fast upon the little
slate, "to think that now it is stained with the blood of a fellow creature, and
doing convict labor in that aw ful place ! 0, that he had gone with all the
others, to lie down guiltless and peaceful over there."
She turned to the window and gaied out, far away, to where the little
cemetery lay bathed in the golden glow of the setting sun.
" It makes me afraid to die," she murmured, and a shiver convulsed her
sl'ght frame. How can I go to them and tell them where I left him ? "
I could do nothing but weep with her and resolve to put her sad story
where it may come under the eye of some thoughtless boy standing on the
verge of his first crime, and lead him to pause a moment and think of his
mother. Think, boys, of yur own mother, and picture her growing bent
and gray beneath the weight of your sins, too sorrowful to live and yet afraid
to die and carry her burden of shame to the innocent ones gone before.
. Carrie Blake Morgan.
A bright little three-year-old was sent to awaken her papa and summon
him to breakfast. Papl( m shc h
N cs, pet, I'm awake," said her m sleepily, and only half open
ing his eye,. 0 m Wt you Wf
by s closing appeal which papa found it impossible to resist